Sword of Rome

by Constance O'Banyon

  Standing, he threw a coverlet over her for protection before he stepped out into the rain. He wanted to hold her, and to go on holding her for the rest of his life. But now was not the time.

  There was a small lantern burning when he entered her bedchamber to lay her on the bed. Suddenly someone tackled him about the legs, taking him by surprise.

  “Leave her alone,” the golden-haired child demanded, clamping her arms around his legs and tugging. “Get out of this room!”

  He reached down and lifted the child, placing her away from him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Thalia, and I’m not going to let you hurt her.”

  He smiled as realization hit him. “You can’t be the grimy urchin Adhaniá brought home with her. I thought you were a lad.”

  She doubled her little fists and glowered at him. “Don’t think because I’m a girl I can’t stop you. And why is her arm bandaged? Did you hurt her? You better not have!”

  She was small and ethereal, but she faced him unafraid in her defense of Adhaniá. Marcellus pulled a lightweight coverlet over Adhaniá. “Rest easy, little one—the man who inflicted the wound on your mistress no longer lives.” His hand drifted across Adhaniá’s cheek as if he could not help touching her. “I am the last person who would do her harm.”

  “Is she unconscious?” Thalia asked, deciding to trust him, and going to the bed to glance down at Adhaniá.

  “She is but asleep.” He stepped back, watching Adhaniá breathing. “Her injury came from her attempt to save me from an assassin.” He smiled down at the small girl, whose eyes were filled with concern. “I’m sure Lady Adhaniá will explain everything to you when she awakes.”

  He turned and walked out into the rain, his anger soaring and vengeance burning in his heart.

  Oh, yes, he knew who the villain was in this night’s work, and Quadatus would pay with his life!

  The child placed her hand on Adhaniá’s forehead to make certain she was not feverish. She was relieved to find her skin cool to the touch. Adhaniá was the first person ever to be kind to her, and Thalia would protect her friend with her own life.

  There had been something sweet in the master’s eyes when he’d stared down at Adhaniá. She had seen naked hunger in his expression, but there was no evil intent in him. She was a child who had seen the sordid side of life on the streets, and she would recognize evil when she saw it.

  Thalia was determined to remain beside Adhaniá all night. The lantern flickered and went out, and the storm moved away, allowing moonlight to chase the darkness from the corners of the room.

  Thalia had already guessed that Adhaniá was involved in some kind of intrigue that was dangerous.

  “I will watch over you,” she whispered softly. “You will come to no harm now that I am here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Marcellus was in full uniform when he dismounted and ascended the steps two at a time. He didn’t bother knocking, but thrust the door open to encounter a startled servant.

  “Take me to your master,” he said in a deadly calm voice, watching the servant bow and scurry down the corridor. “Leave me now,” he said as the man stopped at the closed door of his stepfather’s bedchamber.

  Again without ceremony, Marcellus thrust the door open to find Quadatus still in bed, a glass of wine in his hand and a big-breasted slave curled up beside him. Marcellus looked at the man in distaste. To his way of thinking, to take a slave to bed was little different from rape, since the slave had no say in the matter.

  “Send her away. Perhaps she will go from your bed to dressing my mother’s hair.”

  The pathetic woman slid out of bed and gripped a robe about her, hastening past Marcellus.

  Marcellus could tell by Quadatus’s startled expression that he had not expected to see him alive. It was all Marcellus could do to keep from running the man through with his sword. He was now certain Quadatus had sent the stonemason to his house last night. But he would play this game to the end—Quadatus’s end.

  “You sent a message you wanted to see me, Stepfather, yet you look surprised.”

  “I … er … he … you came so promptly. You look fit.”

  Marcellus’s eyelids lowered. “I never had a better night’s sleep in my life.”

  Quadatus’s face lost its color, but his words were dipped in malice, “You look splendid bedecked in all your finery.”

  “I am in a bit of a hurry. After last night there is work to be done.”

  Quadatus’s face paled even more. “Last night?”

  “Yes,” Marcellus said, smiling to himself as he toyed with his stepfather. “The storm blew down one of the cypress trees at the front of the villa, and it must be replaced.”

  His stepfather looked relieved. “Oh, to be sure, to be sure.”

  Marcellus was a patient man—he would bide his time and strike when the moment was right. For now, he would stay with Antony’s plan, though he had little faith in its success. “I must hurry, so tell me quickly why you sent for me.”

  Quadatus had recovered enough to think more clearly. “Cassius was so taken by your little dancer, I was wondering if she might perform for us again six days hence?”

  Marcellus was silent for so long, Quadatus thought he would refuse.

  “If you like,” he said at last. “I am glad she pleases you.”

  “I thank you,” Quadatus replied. “Will you join us for dinner this evening? Your mother would be glad for your company.”

  “I have a meeting with my stonemason tonight—you know, the Greek who replaced Haridas.”

  “Uh, I don’t know the Greek of whom you speak.”

  “I suppose not.” Without another word, Marcellus stalked out of the bedchamber, knowing if he remained much longer he would throttle his stepfather.

  He frowned when his mother approached from the shadows of a deep alcove.

  “Marcellus, I would speak to you.” She gazed behind her to see if Quadatus was within hearing. “But not here. May I come to your house this afternoon?”

  Marcellus wondered if his mother knew that her husband had sent an assassin to his house the night before. “We have nothing to say to one another.”

  “What I have to tell you is of some import.” When she saw he wasn’t going to relent, she touched his arm. “Please. There is something—” She heard Quadatus’s footsteps and forced a smile. “A lovely broach I have been admiring. Would you not purchase it for me? What could the price of such a small item mean to you?”

  Marcellus frowned, removing her hand from his arm. “Is that all I am to you, Mother, a source of silver?” With a cold stare, he moved away from her and out the door.

  Sarania watched her son leave, her heart aching because he had looked at her with such contempt. She was desperate to talk to him, but it would be difficult, since Quadatus had her watched at all times.

  “What was that about?” Quadatus asked, grabbing Sarania’s arm and spinning her to face him.

  “ ’Twas nothing of import. I merely asked Marcellus for a few pieces of silver, and he refused.” She tried to make light of it. “Do you not think it strange that he should refuse, since he always gives me whatever I ask for?”

  Quadatus pressed his thumbs against the throbbing pulse at her throat and applied pressure. He smiled as he watched her face redden, and applied more pressure until her eyes bulged and blood ran from her nose. As if coming out of a trance, he shoved her away and watched her fall to her knees, gagging and trying to catch her breath.

  “Do not think you can fool me, Sarania. If I ever discover you are plotting against me, you will regret it.”

  She managed to gain her feet, but her legs would barely hold her weight. “I know nothing of plots.” Her voice came out in a painful whisper. “And as for my son,” she said, wiping blood from her nose, “he hardly knows I’m alive.”

  “Oh, aye, your son. He places himself high so he can look down on us all.” He gripped her chin and squeezed until he saw pain in
her eyes, then he released her, his mouth thinning. “After tonight Marcellus will no longer be a thorn in my side. He will bother no one.” He laughed audaciously. “You wonder why I tell you this?” His low-pitched laughter reminded her of a snake’s hiss. “It’s because there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “He is my son!” she cried, reaching out to him. “I will do anything you want—please spare him!”

  He stared at her, frowning. “After tonight, you will have no son. He goes to meet with his stonemason, but he will not arrive there alive.”

  Sarania shook her head in disbelief, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Why do you take delight in telling me this?”

  “For all the nights you lay cold in my arms—for all the days you avoided my touch. Marcellus is a difficult man to kill, as I discovered last night.”

  “You … you tried …”

  “I did. But as you saw, he survived.” He stared into space. “I wonder what happened there?” His mind snapped back to her. “But no matter—tonight will do just as well.”

  “I will fight you.”

  He shoved her so hard, she went sprawling across the floor. “You can do nothing to me. And know this: I will set guards to watch every door and window, so don’t attempt to leave.”

  “But why kill him?”

  “Maybe because he reminds me of his father—or because you care about him. Or perhaps it is because you, being his only living relative, would inherit a great deal of money … and a certain dancing girl I have taken a fancy to.”

  Trembling, Sarania watched Quadatus turn away and disappear back into his bedchamber. He was a madman bent on destroying Marcellus. Somehow she had to get a message to her son to warn him of the danger.

  But how?

  Weakly, she staggered to her feet and braced herself against the wall for a moment, then went to her own bedchamber. Closing the door, she leaned against it until she could catch her breath. Her personal servant, Durra, came to her with concern. “You are ill, mistress?”

  Durra had been given to Sarania as a wedding present from her father the day she had wed her first husband, and she was the only person Sarania could trust in this house. “I am ill, frightened and helpless.” She dropped heavily onto the bed, clutching her throat, which still throbbed with pain. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Durra nodded. “Anything, mistress.”

  “My son faces a grave danger.” She placed trembling hands over eyes that were blinded by tears. “You must go to Marcellus’s home and seek out the dancer and beg for her help. Quadatus has set guards on all the doors, so you will have to leave by the secret passage.”

  None except Sarania and Durra knew of the passageway that had been laid out by Marcellus’s father when he’d built this house. Sarania had never used it, and she had never told Quadatus about its existence. The exit was cleverly hidden in the statue of Jupiter that stood near the rear garden gate.

  Sarania motioned her servant closer and said in a whisper, “This is what you must do …”

  Marcellus had ridden away early in the morning hours, and no one seemed to know when he would return.

  Adhaniá tried not to think about the horror of the night before. Trembling, she moved toward the ornamental pool and sat on the edge, allowing her hand to drift through the water. She had a feeling she would soon be returning to the queen’s quarters. A sudden ache grew in her heart. She did not want to leave Marcellus. More surprising still, the thought of returning to Egypt and never seeing him again stabbed at her heart.

  She was so deep in thought, she did not hear Thalia enter the garden. The child sat down beside her and stared into the pool. Thalia was lovely with her golden hair flying about her head in riotous curls. The child had only been with her for a couple of days and already the little imp had captured her heart. Already Thalia was not quite as gaunt and thin as she had been when Adhaniá first came upon her. Her cheeks had a rosy glow, and she seemed happy. One thing was certain: when Adhaniá left Rome, she would be taking Thalia with her.

  “How do you like your new sandals?” Adhaniá asked, noticing the girl was staring at her feet and wiggling her toes.

  “They are very fine, although they pinch my feet a bit.” Thalia glanced worriedly at Adhaniá’s bandaged arm. “How is your wound this morning, mistress?”

  “It’s a little sore, but it does not bother me overmuch.”

  “He loves you, you know.”

  Adhaniá looked at Thalia in confusion, wondering what she could mean. “If you speak of Heikki, I know he does. There was a time when we were like brother and sister.” She sighed. “But that all changed when we came to Rome.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of your guard,” the child stated with feeling. “I mean the master. I saw how he looked at you when he carried you to bed last night.”

  Adhaniá took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Nay, you are wrong. I believe he likes and respects me—but love, never.”

  Footsteps sounded on the graveled path, and Layla appeared, looking about until she located Adhaniá. “Mistress, there is a servant who wishes to speak to you. She says it is urgent.”

  “Was she sent by Queen Cleopatra?”

  “She says not, mistress. But she will not say who sent her and insists on speaking to you about a grave matter.”

  “Don’t see her,” Thalia warned. The child had learned caution on the streets of Rome. “After what happened to the master last night, you must be careful. I feel trouble when it raises its head, and this woman will be trouble.”

  “Did she appear dangerous to you, Layla?”

  “She is but an elderly servant, mistress. I saw no harm in her. But she did seem desperate about something.”

  “Bring her to me.”

  The woman wore a well-stitched white mantle fastened at her shoulder with a silver broach. Her hair was mostly gray, and she walked as if it was an effort.

  “Mistress,” she said, going down on her knees before Adhaniá, “thank you for seeing me. My poor mistress is in need, and only you can help her.” She looked at the child and then at the servant, unsure if she should speak in front of them.

  Adhaniá nodded at Layla and Thalia. “Leave us.”

  Both looked doubtful, but they withdrew, and Adhaniá reached down, helped the poor woman rise and seated her on the bench. “You look ill. Can I get you something?”

  “Nay, mistress. I am merely distressed for my sweet mistress.”

  Adhaniá bent down beside her. “Why don’t you tell me who your mistress is, and why she sent you?”

  “My mistress is Tribune Valerius’s mother. She bade me come to you on a grave matter.” The servant looked doubtful for a moment. “You are the Egyptian dancer, are you not? I was told you could not speak Latin.”

  If someone had sent the woman to spy on her, she was already caught, so there was no reason to deny she knew Latin. “I am from Egypt, and as you see, I do speak your language. If you are a friend, I beg you tell no one I understand your language; if you are a foe, it is already too late.”

  “I am not your foe, mistress, and neither is Tribune Valerius’s mother. She sent me to warn you that there is a plot to kill her son tonight.”

  Adhaniá stood, recalling the night before, when Marcellus was almost killed. “When? How?”

  “My mistress bids me to tell you her son plans to go into the city tonight. If he leaves this house, he will not survive the night—he will be riding into a trap. Please believe this!”

  Adhaniá began pacing. “I do believe you, for what mother would want to see her son come to harm?”

  Durra met her gaze. “My mistress knows her son well, and she feared that if she told him about the planned attack, he would not believe her.”

  “Tell me what I should do,” Adhaniá said.

  Durra looked so relieved she grasped Adhaniá’s hand, then, realizing she’d been too familiar, she pulled away. “Dear, gracious lady, my mistress begs you to keep him here.” She look
ed embarrassed for a moment, and then said, “You are a dancer, so you must know many ways to entice a man. Surely you can make him want to stay with you tonight.”

  In truth, Adhaniá did not have the knowledge to entrap a man. She frowned, pacing to the fountain and back. “Is your mistress certain it will be tonight?”

  “She is.”

  “If they do not succeed tonight, they will only try another time.” She shook her head. “And another.”

  “Perhaps after tonight you could warn him about the intended assassination, and he can go after the offender, catching him off guard.”

  Although Adhaniá had already guessed Marcellus’s stepfather was behind the plot, she did not say so. “Does Marcellus know who is sending the assassins?”

  “He knows.”

  Adhaniá’s mind was whirling, and she was frightened. “Inform Marcellus’s mother that I shall do what I can to keep him safe tonight. But I am not sure he will stay for me.”

  The servant bowed. “All rests in your hands, mistress. My lady feels you are the only one who can save her son.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Adhaniá stood stock-still. Panic stole her breath and welled inside her. Dropping her head in her hands, she blushed as she imagined what she must do to keep Marcellus with her until dawn.

  It didn’t matter what it took; she would humble herself, beg on her knees, anything to keep him from danger.

  But what if he didn’t want her?

  She had no experience in offering herself to a man.

  No matter the outcome, she must make herself ready. Marcellus might return at any time, and she had to go to him before he left again. Her footsteps felt heavy as she moved down the path to her bedchamber, where Layla and Thalia waited for her. Neither asked what the servant had wanted of her, although she could see they were both curious.

  Kicking off her sandals, she moved toward the bath. “Layla, help me prepare for tonight. Lay out the sheer white costume.”

  “Mistress, will you dance tonight?”